Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen Read Free Book Online Page B

good enough for me.” The hand comes out, snatches my ticket. “Somethin’ else. Teach him how to talk before he gets the shit kicked out of him, will ya?”
    “So, what’s my department?” I ask, heading for a table.
    “Oh no you don’t,” says Camel, grabbing my elbow. “Them tables ain’t for the likes of us. You stick close to me till you learn your way around.”
    I follow him around the curtain. The tables in the other half are set end to end, their bare wood graced only with salt and pepper shakers. No flowers here.
    “Who sits on the other side? Performers?”
    Camel shoots me a look. “Good God, kid. Just keep your trap shut till you learn the vernacular, would ya?”
    He sits down and immediately shoves half a piece of bread into his mouth. He chews on it for a minute and then looks across at me. “Oh go on, don’t be sore. I’m just looking out for ya. You saw how Ezra was, and Ezra’s a pussycat. Sit yourself down.”
    I look at him for a moment longer and then step over the bench. I set my plate down, glance at my manure-stained hands, wipe them on my pants, and, finding them no cleaner, dig into my food anyway.
    “So, what’s the vernacular then?” I say finally.
    “They’re called kinkers,” says Camel, talking around a mouthful of chewed food. “And your department is baggage stock. For now.”
    “So where are these kinkers?”
    “They’ll be pulling in any time. There’s two more sections of train still to come. They stay up late, sleep late, and arrive just in time for breakfast. And while we’re on the subject, don’t you go calling them ‘kinkers’ to their faces, neither.”
    “What do I call them?”
    “Performers.”
    “So why can’t I just call them performers all the time?” I say with a note of irritation creeping into my voice.
    “There’s them and there’s us, and you’re us,” says Camel. “Never mind. You’ll learn.” A train whistles in the distance. “Speak of the devil.”
    “Is Uncle Al with them?”
    “Yep, but don’t you go getting any ideas. We ain’t going near him till later. He’s cranky as a bear with toothache when we’re still setting up. Say, how you making out with Joe? Had enough of horse shit yet?”
    “I don’t mind.”
    “Yeah, well I figure you for better’n that. I been talking to a friend of mine,” Camel says, crushing another piece of bread between his fingers and using it to wipe grease from his plate. “You stick with him the rest of the day, and he’ll put in a word for you.”
    “What’ll I be doing?”
    “Whatever he says. And I mean that, too.” He cocks an eyebrow for emphasis.
    C AMEL’S FRIEND IS a small man with a large paunch and booming voice. He’s the sideshow talker, and his name is Cecil. He examines me and declares me suitable for the job at hand. I—along with Jimmy and Wade, two other men deemed presentable enough to mix with the townsfolk—are supposed to position ourselves around the edges of the crowd and then, when we get the signal, step forward and jostle them toward the entrance.
    The sideshow is on the midway, which teems with activity. On one side, a group of black men struggles to put up the sideshow banners. On the other, there’s clinking and shouting as white-jacketed white men setup glass after glass of lemonade, forming pyramids of full glasses on the counters of their red and white striped concession stands. The air is filled with the scents of corn popping, peanuts roasting, and the tangy undertone of animal.
    At the end of the midway, beyond the ticket gate, is a huge tent into which all manner of creatures is being carted—llamas, camels, zebras, monkeys, at least one polar bear, and cage after cage of cats.
    Cecil and one of the black men fuss with a banner featuring an enormously fat woman. After a couple of seconds Cecil slaps the other man’s head. “Get with it, boy! We’re going to be crawling with suckers in a minute. How are we gonna bring them in if they